


Aetherborn

by sciencemyfiction



Category: Original Work
Genre: Parallel Universe, desert sci-fi
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2015-08-12
Updated: 2015-08-12
Packaged: 2018-04-14 09:55:57
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 10,593
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4560216
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/sciencemyfiction/pseuds/sciencemyfiction
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Near the city of Jayfor Turret stand the five massive farms, and at its center is the Goldyard. Farron Stathopolous, a tech for Oxity Farm, is trying to figure out more about what the Aetherborn are, but she's not alone in her search, and some of those who are looking are less than friendly...</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Prologue

Before everything, before all the rest, in twenty different worlds simultaneously, someone stumbles through a hole and finds that they are somewhere else. The end result is violent storms across the red mountains, an aetherflash so bright-hot it singes the nearest trees, and a mess of a merge. He is more or less human but barely coherent, clawing through the mud and dirt in a forest, scales and skin mixed across a damaged body. The little sentient servant serpents find him first, their communication gears clicking and then whistling, modulating until they find a language that he understands. They ask him who he is:

_I don’t know._

They ask him where he came from:

_I don’t know._

They ask him what he is:

_Please, help me._

After much discussion amongst themselves, the servant serpents emit a distress beacon, beaming their location to Goldyard, and summon a rescue team.


	2. Chapter 1

Every day at the precise zenith of the star in the sky, Goldyard’s claxon rings and the city goes to sleep. It's blaring now, skreeling at the height of human tolerance for sound, and everyone else has gone indoors. With her hands on her ears, Farron sneaks past the outer gate sight unseen. She sometimes wonders what it was like out here, before the War of Settlement. Some monuments and scars upon the face of the land seem like they have been there since all time began, stoically standing in wait for the eventual end of it all-- things like the Jetscore, the Oscillating Towers with their glittering copper sunpanel wings, things like Bellhil, where the communications towers claw up at the sky like a dragon's hand. She watches the sunpanels spread, gleaming up into the sky, casting their big black shadows out across the length and breadth of Jayfor like a shield.  It takes ten minutes, the Oscillation, but they have opened and closed without delay for centuries now, and today is no different.

Farron could wait until the wings were full mantled, but she has someone to see and somewhere to be, and her thicksoled shoes will keep her feet from burning up as she jogs down the asphalt road towards the squat, red-clay buildings that mark the edge of town.

It's cooler than usual today, the looming lip of the Song mountains brimming with big black clouds, but the air down here in the valley is still killing hot and hurts to breathe. Farron is sweatsoaked by the time she makes it to market. She bends over her knees until she can catch her breath, throat burning, and staggers on, grateful for the shade cast by the Towers. By the cover of dark, market is one of the busiest places in Jayfor Turret, but noon finds it barren as the valley that stretches out past city borders. Abandoned street stalls overflow with fresh cactopears and jicam root, with brightly dyed woven blankets and clayware and spare electronic parts from salvagers. They are left unattended for the moment, their owners trusting that no one would brave the day star's cruelest hours just to steal these wares. Instead, they jealously guard their houses now, prizing their shelters and their cool dark resting chambers far more highly. Farron can hear the locks turning as she passes.

She keeps walking, though it's tempting to linger by the tech-stalls, maybe peruse their wares and slip some of them into her pocket for later. Tassie has warned time and again that Ibera keeps serial data on every piece of tech they permit salvagers to bring in the city, though, and already-soldered chips on mounting boards aren't worth the risk. Three streets down, the stalls give way to sword dancers, flautists and storytellers. All of them are settling down to sleep, at the moment, since there's no coin to be made performing for empty streets. Most are laying on their backs with their begging bowls clutched to their chests, though some curl up in tattered, colorful cloaks. A few of the regulars notice her passing, and nod in greeting. She returns the gesture, but doesn't dare slow her steps until she's at the edge of twelfth street, where the manufactory district begins. There, hidden behind the welcoming slope of a dilapidated cookery, a group of singers are sitting around a small fire, talking softly. The smell of their stew is stronger than the acrid sting of stone and salt in her nose, and Farron steps closer to their circle, pausing long enough to fish in her storage pouch and make them an offering.

"Maybe you could add these to your meal," she says, holding out four pears in her cupped hands, spines already plucked. The last of the conversation between them dies down, interest lighting their hungry eyes, and a weathered, tall alto shifts where they sit, turning to smile up at Farron.

"Bountiful harvest over at Oxity, is it?" The alto holds out their hands to accept the gift.

"Bountiful enough those won't be missed, at least!" Farron jokes. It's long been her theory that Ibera has security recorders all over the city, and she'll not do the work of the defense force for them by openly admitting her on-the-job infractions-- if Oxity's owners want to catch their thief, they'll have to do the detective work themselves.

The alto turns to their fellows, passing out the fruits to the gauntest of the group's members. The two largest fruits are split in two by their recipients and passed back until all six have something to show for the trade. Without much fanfare, the singers each begin sucking gently on the pears, carefully biting through the bitter skin and savoring the pink juices of the fruits' flesh. When they notice that she is lingering, the alto licks their lips and scoots over to make room, motioning for Farron to join the group.

"Would you like to share our meal? You would be welcome."

Farron gladly settles down, though the ground is still seeping the heat it's collected from the incessant stare of the day star and anything but comfortable to sit on. She does her best to endure, shifting when her skin starts to feel like it's going numb from the heat. She has to pass a little time before Tassie will be able to open a safe passage for her through the manufactory district anyway, and she's looking for news today.

The singers' eyes are all on her, though they seem relaxed and unafraid of a fat little farmworker, to her benefit. The distant, irritating, mechanical whine of the Towers' wings as they continue wheeling out toward full extension is the only sound, and the longer the singers maintain their expectant silence, the more uncertain Farron becomes. She clears her throat, and tries to start the conversation on her own.

"Not been much luck shaping the rain out past the mountains, I heard." Farron does her best to ignore the feeling of being stared at, directing her own attention to the stewpot, simmering patiently at their center. "The weathervanes are being put under maintenance again, though. Might want to watch out for a flash flood."

"If they can get those damn things running." One of the smaller singers scoffs, their voice a gravelly baritone. "Doc Ojeda's never gotten them up more than a week or two. Doubt that'll change now."

Farron shifts where she sits. Even through her thick black workpants, her thighs feel like they're burning. Oxity's uniform is watertight and temperature regulating, but it's not designed to compete with the concentrated energy of baking asphalt. One of the singers still sucking on a pear plucks a rough, worn red cushion from a pile behind them, and holds it out to her. She takes it gladly, reseating herself atop the cushion with a sigh of relief.

"Good warning, though." The alto winks at Farron, and takes a small bite of their pear. "Kind of you to think of us."

The six are all dressed in the patterned, colorful garb of a registered choir, though they don't seem to be unified with a nameplate on their breasts. Farron feels all the more out of place, garbed in farmer black and marked a member of Oxity's six hundred technicians. Every one of the singers seems to be from an entirely different place of life, though, with the alto clearly marked eldest, gray sneaking into their tightly coiled hair and marking their beard. One of them reaches out to stir the stewpot with a long, battered steel spoon.

A tenor pockmarked with scars picks up the conversation, amiably inquiring, "What brings you down market way, Oxity?"

"A friend of mine. She asked me to have a look at her assistive tech." Farron points toward the manufactory district, and the deeper shadows of Jayfor's towering residental towers beyond. "Said I have to wait till the Towers are mantled to go further than this."

"That's so interesting," remarks a soprano with a broken nose, "since you've never been this way before."

A little put off, Farron straightens where she sits. The disdain in the soprano's tone doesn't sit well with her. "Is there something wrong with that?"

"Never heard of Oxity giving out tech work for free, that's all. And your kind cost double the folk that work shadow-side."

Farron grips the edges of the pillow she's sitting on, hunching her shoulders to try to suppress the frustration she feels. She doesn't want to argue with the singers, nor bring them any trouble by making a scene. Besides, she wants to know what they might've heard about the storm on the mountains, and that won't happen if she speaks further.

She still can't let that comment slide. Her pride won't let her.

"Who I work for isn't who I am. Oxity can charge what they like, but I don't have to."

"Is that so?" The soprano doesn't press further, but they don't seem to believe Farron, either. The rest of the choir seems to come to the conclusion all at once that they will fill the silence with calmer conversation, and they all begin to talk with each other politely, leaving the soprano to suck on their pear and Farron to bite her tongue.

She sits there, tuning  out the playful jokes the singers trade and trying her best not to notice the terrible whining sound echoing over the city from the Oscillating Towers, until the baritone from before bumps her shoulder cheerfully, asking in a low tone, "What about this friend of yours? Why hasn't she called you down before?"

"Usually she visits when she needs repairs."

"Well?" The baritone shoots a meaningful look at the soprano, and Farron is grateful, both that they didn't call her Oxity again, and that they stood up for her. "Isn't that a perfectly reasonable response?"

"Why now, then?" Insists the soprano. "Awfully convenient, Goldyard clamoring for new techs and here you are."

"Anybody with sense won't have a thing to do with Charmchi." The alto says dismissively. They're seated to Farron's left, and they fold their weathered hands together, the half-eaten husk of their pear clutched in the palm of their right hand. "Besides, Goldyard doesn't broadcast to them at Oxity anyway."

Farron starts to answer the soprano's question, but the baritone interrupts her with a jab of an elbow. They shake their head, giving her a cajoling wink and silently encouraging her to let the matter slide. It would be good to find out more about this broadcast, so she wants to ignore that advice. She can't really ask after it at this point without giving contradictory signals to them, though, so she sighs and gives it up. Goldyard's no friend to Oxity, yes. It's reasonable to assume that she, sneaking around outside of regular market hours, might be a defector, hoping to join Goldyard's crew or sell Oxity's tech. Anybody making that assumption would be wrong, but she doesn't owe them proof of that. The mystery broadcast she can ask Tassie about later, she just has to be patient.

The stew bubbles over and a hissing sound rises from the pot. With a yelp, the baritone leans forward, using the scratchy, long sleeves of their shirt to protect their hands as they grab the pot's handles. All around them the group is alive with chatter, coordinating to get the meal served. Those that haven't finished their pears stuff them in pockets or down shirts, saving the rest for later. As the broken-nosed soprano produces a silver cloth, the baritone pulls the pot off the fire. Farron isn't too surprised to see that their fuel source is a little coal of aether. Its blue flame flickers gently in the open air for just a moment, and then the soprano douses it with the cloth. As it absorbs the heat, the silver color flares bright red, then dies down to a soft, brown-flecked gray as it cools. Only once the cloth turns silver again does the baritone set the pot back down, producing a bowl from up one sleeve and scooping out a serving of stew. The rest of the singers follow suit, serving themselves and motioning for Farron to do the same, urging her to join them.

"No, I'll eat with my friend," she says, embarrassed to refuse the offer. "You have little enough as it is. But thank you."

"Hah! Well, don't expect us to ask twice," teases the baritone, and covers the pot with a mismatched clay lid. The greenish broth smells strongly of sweet jicam pulp, and her stomach does rumble in complaint, but Farron stands firm on the subject. She hasn't got a bowl to eat from in the first place, and these singers will still be hungry, in all likelihood, even after they've finished every last drop of that stew.

They sink into an easy conversation between sips of stew, and Farron enjoys the opportunity to listen now that she's not the center of their focus.

"Her Greatness is scheduled to visit next week, I heard," says the second soprano, licking their lips and grinning very widely. Farron can't tell if the expression is meant to convey eagerness or wariness, but it makes her slightly uncomfortable, and she quickly looks away. "Some of the shopkeeps think there'll be a festival."

"Good for coin," the alto muses, rolling their shoulders slowly, right and then left, right and then left. "We ought to see about that corner by the Greenstar, then."

"And sing what?" Until now, the bass hasn't said anything, but they seem to feel more strongly about music than they do about Goldyard. "You won't see much coin with the same old songs, and we've got nothing but."

Here, the broken-nosed soprano winces. "Sorry. My fault, sorry. My hands--"

"Don't apologize," chides the alto, shooting the bass a significantly less charitable look than would match the tone of their voice. "Not for that. We all know you're doing your best."

The others nod, chiming in to agree, and raise their bowls in salute to the broken-nosed soprano. This doesn't seem to bring them much comfort, and the alto continues in a soothing tone,

"I, for one, am amply glad you're still in one piece."

"Relatively." The bass heaves a deep, resonating sigh. "We rely too much on you. That's what this whole thing has taught me."

"Not enough, if you ask me," scoffs the other soprano, laughing.

"What happened to you?" Farron asks, curiosity piqued. She feels the weight of their eyes suddenly shift to her, as though they had collectively forgotten her presence, but doesn't falter. After sharing some kind of unspoken conversation with a few wry looks back and forth between them, the broken-nosed soprano clears their throat, evidently amiable to relate the story. They lean forward, pausing to take a sip of stew before they answer.

"Last call Goldyard put out for was interpreters, people who speak many tongues. I know six."

"Six!" agrees the other soprano with a melodramatic wink for Farron. The broken-nosed soprano rolls their eyes and leans a bit further in to draw Farron's attention back to them, saying,

"I'm not from Jayfor, and I've traveled a lot, that's why. Out comes this call, blaring on all the displays through the livelier parts of town. Interpreter, interpreter. So, we all put our heads together and thought, yes, let's do a favor for the Goldyard research team. Maybe they can help us get better venues, later. Ha! Not so."

Glancing from one to the next of them, Farron ventures her theory. "They didn't agree to help you?"

"More like, people who work for Goldyard, they don't really see us as people. Sure didn't treat me like much of a person. Two weeks in, they had a test subject I couldn't understand. Weird sounding language, more like an animal than a person. And what happened? I tell them I don't know what to make of this and minutes later, they brand my hands and end my contract with them. Haven't been able to hold a quill since, not yet."

The broken-nosed soprano sets their bowl in their lap and lifts their hands to show Farron what they mean, and she shudders when she sees them. Skin is still peeling off the angry red scabs coating the soprano's hands, top and bottom. All Farron can think is that the palms would probably hurt worse, but she isn't sure and she doesn't dare ask. Instead, she offers her sympathy with a grimace and a shake of her head.

"No wonder you can't do it anymore."

"Not for now," the soprano agrees with practiced calm. Farron can only imagine they've had to reassure themselves and others with these same words many times since then. Farron is impressed by their resolve. Were it her, she suspects she wouldn't be able to maintain any such pretense. "The damage was only superficial. I'll be myself again, it'll just be a few weeks."

"Which still presents a problem for the near future, if we can't make do in time for the festival," adds the other soprano, though they sound sympathetic, rather than accusatory.

The rest chime in, debating whether to try for a mix of old and new, or maybe transcribe the parts as the broken-nosed soprano dictates, but their ruckus is overshadowed by the sound of the Oscillating Towers finally locking into place. Like weaponsfire, the massive locks click shut with a bassy boom of metal on metal, reverberating across the whole of Jayfor and out into the stillness of the bleached, dry valley. She leaps to her feet, so startled that she nearly bolts. Only the alto's hand, callused and calming on her calf, keeps her from darting off down the streets to look for cover. To Farron's alarm, the singers seem utterly unaffected by it all, continuing their conversation with the practiced ease of people who must deal with the Oscillation every day. She'd never realized how much softer the sound is by the time it hits the farmlands, before.

Her heart is still pounding as she crouches down to pick up the red pillow and hand it back to the alto. They take it with a small smile, and before she can even say thank you, they turn back to the others. Within seconds, the singers are deep in conversation, as engaged as if Farron had never been there. It's the safest way to handle things, that's true, but she regrets it anyway. Sneaking into Jayfor's center seemed much less intimidating when she had company.

Farron gathers her courage like a cloak about her, and continues walking toward the manufactory buildings. Her ears are still ringing from that percussive finale from the Oscillating Towers but she does her best to conceal the sound of her passing, purposeful and cautious in her every step. The manufactory's buildings are sealed against outsiders, their inner machinery still running, their exhaust pipes still belching steam and smoke up into the scorching gray sky. Uniformed personnel dash back and forth past the smokey glass of the factories' thick old windows, unaware of Farron's presence. Further ahead she can see the streets are populated only by the blue-cloaked figures of the Ultramar Ibera, marching sedately from place to place as they carry out their daily duties. Farron leans more heavily against the red clay bricks of the factory, knees suddenly feeling weak and shaky beneath her, and tries to regroup.

When she'd received Tassie's call, she'd wondered about how she was meant to get past the Ultramar. Too often she's heard stories about what the Iberans did to a curious, unattended child or an innocent messenger heading to Goldyard by back routes, and Farron wants nothing to do with the kinds of permanent injury those stories have told her to expect from such a conflict. They'd even argued for a few minutes about it, wasting precious time, before Tassie had assured Farron she was worrying over nothing.

"They don't guard the streets, there's nothing to guard there," Farron mimicks under her breath, annoyed and doing her best not to panic. She's half-sure if she just ran for the marketing district again she could make it back before she's missed. She might get sunsick running back across the valley out to Oxity's gates, but sunsickness isn't permanent, and Farron is no fool. She can't make it past undetected, and she still has to get to the residential zone before she can help Tassie.

On foot, though, she's absolutely certain that's impossible.

There's not much time to redraft her plan. So far the Iberans haven't noticed her, but that won't stay true forever, and Farron has to be ready when they do. If she could disguise herself as one of them-- find a blue cloak the right shade, and cover the patch on the breast of her shirt marking her an Oxity hand-- then it just might be possible. Farron couldn't take on the whole Ultramar Ibera's contingent of fighters, true, but if she can lure just one of them away from the rest, she might be able to manage some kind of theft of the needed cloak. She can see plenty of little alleys created between buildings that aren't under guard by the Iberans, and better yet, some have hiding spaces suitable for her needs.

Farron makes herself walk towards the nearest such alley as casually as she dares, hoping not to draw any attention to herself. If she can seem as though she belongs, perhaps she will escape detection until she's ready for the consequences. She hooks around the corner as soon as she reaches it and ducks behind a dumpster and out of sight. Piles and piles of discarded, fermenting foodstuffs stand in the alleyway, littered here and there with broken bits of tech. She tries to hold the memory of the singers's savory stew cooking over their aetherflame, but the stench of muck and burnt offal is much stronger than she can ignore.  It's easy enough to find a hiding spot behind one of the piles of mold and star-singed detritus, though Farron has to breathe through her mouth in a desperate effort to block out the smell.

From her vantage point, she can make out two pairs of blue-cloaked guards, walking perpendicular to each other. They seem to be in the midst of an animated conversation, and are clearly en-route to turn back toward city center and out of her sight again once they've checked in with the factory across the way from her chosen hiding spot. The taller one is currently relating some kind of anecdote with excited gestures of their hands, but the shorter one seems to be fairly alert.

It's not her best plan, and her hands are slick with sweat at the thought that she might be going about this all the wrong way, but there's no time to second guess anymore.

Farron reaches down into the most disgusting parts of the junk pile she's using as cover, seizing a rotten, half-eaten chunk of meat with determination. It's all she can do not to gag at the sensation of maggots wriggling under her fingers as she takes aim and launches the meat square at the taller guard's shoulder. She can't quite bring herself to strike the poor guard in the face with it, even if that would be a better distraction. As it is, Farron will have nightmares about touching the stuff for months to come, she's sure.

As soon as her vile projectile has left her fingers, Farron hastily scrambles deeper into the alley, hiding behind the second dumpster and wiping her slimey hand on its painfully warm side as an afterthought. She'll need her hands dry to be able to get a good grip on whoever comes her way first. A startled shriek tells her she struck her target, though she can't be sure where, exactly, the meat landed. Holding her breath, Farron waits for the sounds of the two guards rushing towards the alley.

"Show yourself!" shouts a petulant voice that she assumes must belong to her target. "The Ultramar Ibera will not be mocked!"

The alert guard is going to be trouble, and Farron knows that, but she's betting on her unlucky target to be so agitated that they throw caution to the wind and give her what she needs. Footsteps slogging through the sludge and muck begin to draw closer to her, and she crouches low, preparing for a struggle. If she can just get her target off-balance, she's confident she can separate them from their cape and get them stuck in a pile of garbage for long enough to get away. Then of course there's the matter of evading the second guard long enough to hide again, put on the cloak, and vanish into the crowd of Iberans while she works her way through the manufactory district--

"Attacking without provocation is a punishable offense," continues the taller guard, as their steps draw ever more dangerously close. Farron crouches as low as she comfortably can, arms wide to grab her target when they come into sight. Then a distinctive, familiar glissando of tones glimmers through the air, only steps from where she is hidden. It's echoed a little further back.

Farron panics, gritting her teeth hard to stifle her instinctive whimper of fear. They're arming their guns? Over something so ridiculous as being slapped with garbage? Suddenly she's all too aware of the inherent danger of her foolish, foolish plan. She's alone, and she's not where she's supposed to be. They must know that, or at least suspect, and Iberan guns are energy weapons, their blasts barely more than a whisper in the dark. They could kill her here and leave her body with the piles of discarded food and nobody would ever realize what had happened, nor hold them accountable.

That's probably exactly what they're going to do.

While she's still reeling, mind racing for some way to fix this, to take back the last ten minutes of her life and choose to live them more wisely, three things happen simultaneously. First, the taller guard rounds the pile of garbage she'd been hiding beside, bringing up the barrel of their pistol in preparation to shoot. Second, Farron launches herself desperately at the guard's gut, trying to ram with her shoulder hard enough to knock them out, or at least disarm them, if she's lucky. And third, a hollow, reverberating buzz fills the air as the shorter Iberan fires their gun at her, and Farron feels the bolt of electrical energy lancing towards her.

It must miss, because when the second passes, Farron is still breathing, is not burning with pain and missing a limb as she would have expected. She cringes, reflexively, rolls off of her would-be assailant and dashes for the second guard in a last ditch effort to save herself, diving for the guard's legs to knock them down and rolling with them until she comes down on top of them. They struggle with each other for possession of the guard's gun, Farron breathing hard and the guard hissing angrily under their breath, but when a second bolt of light escapes the pistol, it lances harmlessly up the wall of one of the factories they're nestled between, leaving behind a singed line from the alley floor to the factory roof.

"Two down," hisses the guard, trying to wrest their hands free to use their wrist-radio to bring in support. "Oxity farmhand assailant, average height, heavyset, olive skin and black hair--"

Farron pushes down with all of her weight on the guard's hand, slamming their wrist against the stone of the paved ground until the device is crushed, wringing the gun from their fingers and throwing it a few feet deeper into the alleyway, somewhere in another pile of trash. She only stops when she realizes the guard is watching her now, waiting patiently to see what she'll do next.

"Not used to this sort of thing, are you, farmgirl?" says the guard, cradling the wrist she'd beat against the floor. When Farron realizes she's probably hurt the guard-- possibly even broken their wrist-- the adrenaline finally boils over into terror, and she sobs, softly, wiping at her face with the hand she hadn't used to handle the rotten meat.

"I just need to get to city center. I just needed to sneak by you, that's all. I'm so, so sorry." Farron leans back, still on the verge of tears, still on edge, and clambers miserably to her feet. It's ridiculous, apologizing to someone who was going to kill her, a few seconds ago, but she can't look at the injury she caused and not feel horrified.

The guard seems oddly unperturbed, and remains where Farron left them, making no effort to get to their feet again. She checks nervously to be sure their taller partner isn't about to shoot her from behind, but the taller guard appears to have been knocked out from the initial confrontation and is curled on their side on the ground, now, breathing raggedly.

"I just-- I need your cloak," Farron says after a moment, feeling awkward and unsure of what to do, now. "Either of your cloaks would do. I need to see my friend, it's important."

"Your friend lives further in?" speculates the shorter guard, making no move to stop Farron from stealing the cloak off of their partner. She does so quietly, gradually recovering her sense of equilibrium. The cloak she's stolen is too long for her.

"Yes."

"You won't be able to make it far if you're not traveling in a pair. Iberans never go alone." The guard shrugs quietly. "Just so you're aware."

"You tried to shoot me," Farron answers, in a very small voice, feeling that this is the only salient piece of information that she needs to take away from the situation.

"I didn't try--"

"You tried to shoot me!"

"I didn't TRY." The guard stares hard at Farron, searching her face as if expecting to find some clue to Farron's identity there. "Farmgirl, I shot you. Honest to Her Greatness Ibera."

Farron looks down at herself, trying to see where the wound she doesn't feel is, but there's nothing missing from her body and there's no hole in her suit.

"My name's Manayan, by the way," says Manayan, shifting slightly and sitting up from where they'd been lying on the ground, curling their injured wrist in to their lap protectively. "You should be dead. I'm a very good shot."

"You didn't-- you must have missed," Farron says weakly, feeling the excitement of it all catching up with her in a very bad way. She doesn't dare obey her instincts and sit down. She's not sure she could find it in her to stand up again. "That flash of light, maybe your gun malfunctioned."

"No."

Somehow, that answer seems so simple and true that Farron can't help but believe that Manayan means it. She starts to laugh, but to her ears it doesn't sound quite it should. Manayan does it too, and for a few moments they are two confused human beings who are just grateful not to be alone. Then Manayan starts to stand, and Farron sinks into a defensive stance, just in case.

"I'm not going to fight you, farmgirl. You took my gun and broke my wrist, and I already tried shooting you, anyway."

"Oh." For a moment, she tries to make sense of that on her own, but Farron shakes her head, unable to see what Manayan is getting at. "So what are you going to do, then?"

"I'm going to help you get to your friend, of course."

"You're going to do that?" Farron repeats, feeling a little faint. It has to be a trap, and she can't risk Tassie being brough into this. She swallows hard, trying not to let her fear show on her face, even as her thoughts cluster darker and darker with all the possible ways Manayan might be planning to trap her later.

Then Manayan says, wryly, "Well, obviously shooting you again wouldn't get me anywhere. Bringing you in might get me some justice for this injury, but it wouldn't satisfy my curiosity."

"And you can always bring me in later."

"Exactly. I can do that, if I decide to."

Farron wavers, lingering there in the nauseating stink of the alley, trying to see a better path forward from here. She wants to ask about Manayan's unconscious partner, who's going to wake up alone and without their uniform of office. Or, failing that, she wants to ask Manayan to promise not to hurt Tassie. Ultimately, though, it seems that Farron has no other choice at the moment. Not unless she wants to try to kill Manayan, and she's quite sure she couldn't do that, which is probably why Manayan is acting so unworried about everything.

Slowly, Farron begins walking out of the alley, letting Manayan walk abreast of her. They both put their hoods up and draw their cloaks about their bodies to hide the stains and clothing beneath, and Farron leads the way towards Tassie's section of the residential district.

"I'm sorry about your wrist, Manayan."

"Don't be," Manayan says easily, shrugging it off. "I was going to kill you. This isn't nearly so bad."


	3. Chapter 2

Tassie lives in one of the seven sub-central towers that rings the center of the city, in a small unit somewhere on the eighteenth floor. This close to Goldyard, Farron occasionally notices a trace of sweet, ticklish scent on the air, and her imagination supplies vast gardens of flowering cacti and pretty orange poppies as the source. Everybody knows that Goldyard is built above an underground sea. It seems logical that they might use those resources to cultivate their own food, the better to remain independent from Oxity and the other farms.

Now that they are here at Tassie's tower, however, Farron isn't certain how to proceed. She knows Tassie's unit number and has a key for the door, but she's not sure how far she can trust her unwanted company. Manayan has remained stoic since they left the alley behind. They cradle their wrist against their chest, cloak's edge curled in their fingers to conceal the damage from any curious onlookers, and have thus far made no complaint. It seems that whenever she glances their way, however, that Manayan is staring at her, brow bent in thought, eyes narrowed. This, combined with their shared silence, has conspired to make Farron increasingly nervous with every step. She is doing her best to ignore it.

"This is it." Farron points up at the building in question, wiping sweat from her brow with her other hand. It's cooler in the shade but the heat is inescapable out here in the open, and the Ultramar Iberan cloak has proved to be both itchy and uncomfortably warm in practice. Once they're inside, Farron fully intends to shuck her disguise and use it as a towel for all the sweat running down her neck and cheeks.

When Manayan doesn't comment, nor even miss a step, Farron looks away from them and back up at the tower, trying to guess how high they'll have to go to reach the eighteenth floor. She shudders when she realizes how high it stretches, feeling momentarily dizzy. All of the towers seem frighteningly tall, like little slices of mountains moved out into the middle of the valley and left there to wobble and loom dangerously overhead. Farron doesn't spend much time this deep inside the city, given a choice, and she's never gotten used to how big the buildings at Jayfor's center really are. There's a wrongness in that unfamiliarity, a sense of danger that keeps her glancing over her shoulder as they make their way to the front door. She feels half certain that one of the buildings around them will suddenly collapse at any moment.

Farron is not much taller than Manayan, but still has to slow her usually sprawling gait so that they can keep up. The entrance to all residential towers, Tassie had explained, looks exactly the same: there is a decorated arch with the name of the building and the number standing over a double-door made of thick, opaque glass. The front doors are never locked, but sometimes they may be guarded, depending on recent events. Its name is written without decoration, and painted the same blue as the cloaks they are wearing. AUREM - 397. Tassie should be in unit 1839.

Taking a deep breath, Farron pulls open the double doors and motions for Manayan to precede her through. With a last, nervous glance out at the unhurried citizens and pairs of guards walking the streets behind them, Farron follows, easing the doors shut. Inside, the building is cool as a pleasant night and dark, its windowless interior lit only faintly by the blinking display of an all-access transport at the center of the front hall. No one else appears to be walking the lobby at the moment, and Farron hastily unhooks the catches securing the cloak at her throat, wrapping it over her right arm to carry it more discreetly. Her Oxity uniform is soaked with sweat and clings to her back uncomfortably, but it breathes much better than the Iberan cloaks do. Once she's got her bearings, she continues forward as bravely as she dares, heading straight to the all-access transport. Manayan follows a step behind her, making no move to take off their cloak in kind.

"You seem quite desperate," Manayan comments, once they reach the transport's interface.

Wrinkling her nose, Farron ignores them, pressing the buttons to call for a lift. Three separate terminals stand here at the center of the building, their shaft stretching up into the cool darkness above them and out of sight. The display lights up when she touches the button, and guidance lights blink to life all the way up to the top of the middle shaft, marking it as it begins to slowly drop down towards the ground floor to pick them up.

"Is your friend a fugitive, perhaps? Else why all the secrecy?"

"No." It hadn't occurred to Farron that such a conclusion might be logical in Manayan's position, but she doesn't feel like clearing it up. Part of her worries she'll give away some piece of compromising information and get Tassie in trouble if she isn't careful. "We're going to unit eighteen-three-nine. Once we're on the right floor, I don't know how to find it."

"Ahh, you really don't get out much, do you farmgirl?" Manayan nods to themselves, and looks up the shaft at their approaching transport. "I can help you with that once we get there."

"Thank you."

"I do have one small request, though." As the transport descends with a hiss to its landing position and opens to welcome them in, Manayan looks significantly down at their wrist, and then expectantly back at Farron. "The damaged equipment and my partner will be enough trouble, but I don't think the Ultramar cares all that much about injuries sustained on-duty. If you and your friend could be bothered, I'd really appreciate it if you set my wrist. The pain is starting to get to me."

A wave of guilt settles over Farron like a shiver, and she swallows down her initial instinct to apologize again. Instead, she steps into the transport and selects the appropriate floor, waiting until Manayan has joined her to answer. "I'll see what we can do. She might have something to take the edge off of that."

Making a grateful sound that is halfway between a grunt and a sigh, Manayan slumps against the back wall of the transport once the doors have closed, and closes their eyes when it begins moving. Farron isn't sure if they share her mistrust and fear of such devices or are simply feeling unwell, but she's privately glad to see that the unflinchingly calm facade Manayan puts up is meant to cover the severity of their injury, and not some more nefarious intent. It's always possible that both are still true, but Farron has no idea how she's going to find her way back out of the city at this point. She has to believe that there's some possibility she can manage it with Manayan's help.

Silent though they are, the all-access transports are an ancient feature of the building, and smell strongly of sweating bodies, as though the memory of all the weary, hot workers and citizens who have traveled here has been trapped within. Farron is relieved when the slight sensation of motion abates and the transport doors fly open again, revealing a brightly lit corridor with windows that open out on the city below. On the one hand, the view includes an incredible glimpse of Goldyard, a sudden and vibrant explosion of greenery amidst the baked brown-red of the city. On the other, the windows' glass let the cooler air leach out of the hall, and Farron can feel her still-overheated face getting hotter again. Hopefully it will be better inside of Tassie's home. She waits for Manayan to find their balance, leaving only after they do.

"All right," Manayan sighs, with a frown for the windows and sudden bright light. "Find me the nearest unit door to the right, farmgirl. What number's on it?"

A long row of doors stretches out on either side of the transport all the way to the edges of the building from here. The nearest on the right reads 1865, and she reads it aloud for Manayan's benefit, glancing left to compare. "Eighteen-six-five. Left is eighteen-zero-two."

"Then we go right. Odd numbers will all be over there."

Farron doesn't argue, taking the suggestion and walking as quickly as she can without leaving Manayan several steps behind her. It feels as though they are even slower now that they are indoors, but perhaps the return of the heat is having a negative effect on Manayan's health. She's finding it a little more difficult to shrug off her exhaustion, too.

In stark contrast to the brightly lit, tidy corridor with its expansive windows and soft, soundless carpet, the doors to the living units beyond them are uniformly made of solid stone. They are not all the same color, but most seem to be pale red, like the fired clay used throughout the city. Each is held shut by an electronic lock and numbered in blue paint above the doorframe. It represents a bizarre counterpoint to designs that are otherwise familiar to Farron from her years living on the outskirts of the city in Oxity-provided tenements. She counts the numbers as they pass them, though they seem to be descending in order from sixty-five, and tries to keep Manayan alert and focused.

"Have you heard any news of Her Greatness lately?"

"What?" At first, Manayan seems almost suspicious, hesitant to answer. They seem to come to the conclusion that the information isn't inherently harmful, after a few steps in silence, and add off-handedly, "It's common knowledge that the Lady Ibera will be visiting Yrsa next week. Beyond that, I know about as much as you do, in all likelihood. Her Greatness is very private."

"I heard that she's lived for ten thousand years," Farron says idly, as they round the corner at the first far edge of the building. Eighteen-forty-nine. Just a couple more doors, and they should be standing outside of Tassie's place. "Is she really that old?"

At that, Manayan chuckles wryly, shaking their head. "Do Oxity workers believe everything they hear?"

"Do you?"

"I guess I do."

Farron doesn't answer, instead pointing ahead to Tassie's door. "This is the one, Tassie's room."

"Tassie? And I don't suppose I get to know who you are?"

She ignores Manayan's prying and wipes her sweaty palm on her hip, then fishes for the key Tassie had entrusted to her when they first met. It's spent the last several years in a stained glass box under Farron's bed, safe and secret, but its fiberwork still draws power from the tiny battery housed in its metal casing. Farron holds her breath, and holds out the key's tip, fitting the jagged edge into the electronic lock of unit eighteen-three-nine. For a moment, nothing happens. She starts to worry that the calibration of the lock hasn't remained in alignment with the model Tassie had originally used, or perhaps a short has rendered the key she carries an invalid match to its home lock.

Then the display panel lights up, and there's a soft click as the hammers recede into the stone door and the lock disengages. A tiny chime sounds, announcing their success.

Relieved, Farron pulls open the door, marveling at how lightly it sits on its hinges, how easily it moves at her touch. The room beyond is a simple one, stacked with partially converted relays and dismantled weather minder drones, one table sporting an array of familiar tools, another carefully decorated with a to-scale model of Jayfor Turret's entire city structure, carefully pieced together from bits of junk tech. Tassie owns several processing stations, including one she uses solely for recreational reading, but none of those seem to be in this front room. Two doorways open off of the room, one leading to what looks like a cooking space, the other passing deeper into the living unit and hung on either side with colorful scarves and masks collected from years of attending the Revelry of Ibera in the market district.

Tassie isn't in view of the front room. It's been hours, much longer than Farron had anticipated it would take her, and now that she's finally here she starts to panic, running through all the possible things that might've happened since she was initially contacted.

"Tassie?" Farron heads for the back room, peering around the corner of the little hall between them in search of Tassie's familiar red hair.

"So Tassie is some kind of programmer, from the look of things," Manayan says, following a bit sluggishly. They seem fascinated by the living space they've been presented with, and linger by the model of the city as Farron continues past. "I was wondering why a farmtech would bother coming cityside. Goldyard's looking for folks with your skill, of course, but you wouldn't need to sneak around if that's where you were headed."

"Guess you have your answer, then," Farron says distractedly, continuing into the back room and stepping carefully around scatted piles of discarded neuro-interface consoles and memorygrams. The last room of the unit appears to be a small but efficient sleep and waste space, currently in sleep mode.

Still in the front room, Manayan's slightly muted voice agrees cheerily, "I guess so! You two build altered drones together, don't you?"

Farron ignores the question. She approaches the bedroom instead, leaning in the doorway to find Tassie curled up on the floor beside her bed, silently crying. The whole room is a mess, sheets twisted around Tassie's injured legs and her clothing chest hanging open on its side, most of her wardrobe spilled onto the floor. In the corner across from her sits the currently inactive husk of her assistance drone, Tik.

"Tassie!" Farron stumbles through the bedroom door, throwing the now-useless Ultramar cloak to the floor to free up her hands. She doesn't ask questions, just joins Tassie on the floor and enfolds her in a strong embrace, whispering soft assurances into her limp red hair. It's been a long time since Tassie had to go through a day without Tik's assistance, and all that Farron can think to say to her now is, "I'm here. I'm here now. Hey, Tassie. Just tell me what fuses blew, we'll get her online before you know it."

"I couldn't even get dressed," Tassie sobs, furious and frustrated. She grips Farron back tightly, her hands like claws, and buries her face on Farron's shoulder until she's had enough time to collect herself and wipe her nose. "I couldn't even-- I couldn't even put my stockings on. I tried so hard. I tried for an hour, but then my arms were so tired I couldn't get myself back up."

Farron knows not to say anything, though she didn't always know. She makes a reassuring sound and rubs Tassie's back instead, to show that she's listening and that it's okay to tell her more about it. She can hear Manayan's footsteps approaching and all but feel the curious stare on her back, but for now she ignores them. This was a bad day for Farron, but it was undoubtedly worse for Tassie, and they won't be able to fix it until Tassie's feeling right again.

"I wanted to be dressed. I wanted to answer the door when you visited," Tassie whispers through angry tears, shaking with hurt. "I wanted to be there."

"I know."

The tension starts to ease out of Tassie's hands, though she doesn't make any indication that she's ready for Farron to stop holding her, yet. She sniffs loudly and this time, when she sobs it's noisy and agitated and angrier than it is sad. "They outlawed one of Tik's processor models this morning. Asshole Ultramar came in and stripped it right out of her head while she was running and shorted her out. I was in bed. In bed! They didn't ask."

"They what?!" When she'd gotten Tassie's urgent message, Farron had imagined it sent in the same cajoling tone that usually flavors their conversations, and suspected an experimental upgrade had been the cause of Tik's sudden lack of function. Knowing the truth now, she wishes she could somehow have run faster, even though she should probably just be glad she survived the trip at all. "Did they at least give you some kind of replacement?"

"Self-thinking assistance drones aren't considered standard, no," Tassie sighs, rubbing at her eyes again and sounding considerably less upset and considerably more cross. Farron's glad for the change-- cross is almost Tassie's default mood, and far preferable to distress-- and pulls back enough to look Tassie in the eye. She gets a wan smirk for her trouble. "They ripped apart my assistance drone and then left me here with no way to even feed myself, let alone get around to file a complaint or demand compensation. Hail her Greatness, right?"

Behind Farron, Manayan stifles a chuckle, and announces their presence with a slight cough. Tassie grabs tighter hold again, staring over Farron's shoulder with carefully managed contempt.

"You brought a guard with you?" Though she keeps her tone polite and neutral, Tassie makes no effort to conceal her distrust.

"Not on purpose," Farron says hastily. "Um--"

"Help me up to the bed, please."

"Oh-- yes! Sorry. Yes."

It seems as though Manayan is accustomed to responses much like Tassie's. They act unaffected, leaning against the edge of the doorframe casually while Farron assists Tassie in getting to her feet and, very quickly, into a sitting position on the edge of her bed.

"Oh, no. She roughed me up and dragged me along as a disguise. Got her through the residential zone."

When Tassie shoots Farron a doubtful look, Farron confirms the story. "I stole their partner's cloak to blend in. They asked if we can set their wrist."

"Forgive me if I'm not feeling especially charitable at the moment," Tassie counters, though she's looking at Farron, not Manayan. "I'm just surprised they didn't shoot you, honestly. You're not that fast."

"I wasn't," Farron admits, though she's still not sure about that part herself. She's been trying not to think about it, but Tassie deserves to know, just in case it turns out she's more injured than she thinks. "I was able to knock down their partner, but Manayan shot me. Apparently."

Manayan adds helpfully, "Yes, I did."

Though she does check Farron cursorily for injuries, Tassie only frowns at the story, evidently finding it about as fanciful as Farron does. Nothing indicates injury on Farron's body, not torn cloth nor sudden pain nor numbness. Only once Tassie has finished that inspection and nodded her agreement does Farron stand back up from her crouch by the bed. Her back complains, and she stretches until her spine aches, casting a surreptitious glance over at Tik, inert in the corner. Without her receptors firing and her viewplate lit up, Tik looks like nothing so much as a small squat barrel made of copper. Her six spidering limbs are curled in toward her frame as if to try to protect herself from being dismantled, her head hanging limp and green glass display gone dim.

"Do you have spare processors? I'd rather fix Tik before we do anything else." Shooting Tassie a hopeful look, Farron does her best to hope for a good answer. They've made it their shared hobby through the years to collect potential extra pieces for Tik's constantly upgrading personality software, but there's a very real possibility that the Ultramar guards who came before would have taken any spares that Tassie had lying out, as well. Behind her, Manayan makes a dissatisfied noise, though they do not voice their concern aloud.

"I think they took most of it, but there might be some left, under the counter in the kitchen." Tassie is still shaken, but she seems to be examining Manayan, now, and motions for them to step forward. As they silently offer her their broken wrist, she leans close enough to get a good look at the bruised and swollen joint, wincing in sympathy.

Farron's stomach aches with guilt, but she tries to stay focused on her current task. She can't solve every problem, and she's still not sure Manayan won't drag them both to Her Greatness's Judgment for assault, not to mention using outlawed tech. Once Tik is online, Tassie will be mobile again, and Farron is hoping Tik can provide some insight about what may have caused her to survive being shot point-blank without so much as a scratch. The matter of whether to trust Manayan or not can wait until then. Farron clears her throat slightly to draw Tassie's attention again.

"What about your tools? Did they say anything about confiscating those?"

It must be one of the many things that haunted her while she was waiting for Farron to show up, because Tassie makes a bitter face. "Not in so many words, but I didn't get to oversee the process. They might've, I wouldn't know."

Though clearly paying close attention to their conversation, Manayan remains silent, offering no interruptions. Tassie asks them in an undertone to move each finger individually, and then to try to make a fist. They are unable to move their two smallest fingers, let alone clench their hand into a ball, and Farron grinds her teeth against the urge to apologize again, knowing that it won't help. Instead, she tries to reassure Tassie.

"I'll figure something out if they took any of the important bits."

"Thank you," Tassie says, almost too softly for Farron to hear at first. She repeats it, a little louder. "Thank you for coming, Farron. I know it's dangerous. I wouldn't ask if I didn't need help."

"I know you wouldn't." She's not sure if that's what Tassie needs to know the most, but it feels important to Farron. They've been together since before the shrapnel explosion, and Farron has no intent for that to change. She knows Tassie worries about being burdensome, though, and she doesn't want to ever validate that horrible feeling. Rather than let Tassie dwell on it, she returns to the subject at hand. "So. Spare processors under the counter?"

"Five or six, yeah." Tassie points to her bedside desk, indicating the second drawer down. At her order, Manayan retrieves a soft cloth bag, dyed green, from within the clutter there. "Keep in mind, I haven't tested them recently. They might not even run."

"That's my problem, right now. You concentrate on helping Manayan, I'm going to test them till I find a good replacement." Farron hesitates, and double checks. "If that's okay?"

She knows that when it comes to Tik, Tassie is highly independent and prefers to make the decisions about maintenance and care herself. If Tassie wants to oversee the testing, Farron won't deny her that. It might take longer overall, but working for Tassie's comfort is the reason Farron traversed the city in the killing heat of midday.

It feels somewhat embarrassing to have the intimacy of their friendship under observation, but to Farron's relief, Manayan is quietly respectful, offering no advice nor making any commentary.

After a short deliberation, Tassie says, "That's fine. We'll be in here if you need anything."

In the kitchen, Farron flips on the broadcast receiver, curious to know if Manayan's partner has yet reported in and exposed their encounter to the rest of the Ultramar Ibera. Testing processors is a tedious business and the background noise helps her concentrate. As promised, Tassie has six processors hidden away under the counter, concealed under a silverware drawer's false bottom. One is chipped, but the other five look potentially salvageable, and Farron brings them out into the front room to create her testing space. Everything is a mess, tools left out in haphazard piles. Some of the finer devices of Tassie's trade have been damaged, and Farron makes a mental note of them, one by one, so that they can see to the business of getting replacements, later. Amid the rest, there is still a viable power source for her tests, plenty of cabling, and a functioning soldering gun.

First she has to locate a decent shell to mock-up Tik's design. Certain unique elements of Tik's original function as a farm drone help protect it from outside interference, but consume additional energy, which can overheat processors not designed to handle the extra. Therefore, even the most promising shell amidst the junk Tassie has collected is in need of a little adjusting. An hour has passed by the time Farron is finished arranging and preparing all the necessary parts of her tests. She mounts the first processor and asks it to post on an attached display screen.

Nothing.

While she changes the processors out to test the next, the broadcast in the kitchen continues uninterrupted. It sounds like a report on current produce imports from the farmlands, and expected market prices, though Farron isn't really listening too closely to what's being said. As she carefully installs the second processor and turns her testing apparatus on, the rhythmic and methodical voice of the announcer is interrupted by a shrill chime. Farron freezes where she sits, paralyzed by dread. All she can think is that she must have been noticed, reported, missed. Manayan's absence has drawn attention to them all. The Ultramar Iberan guard is mounting an assault. It's all over before it's begun and Tik won't ever be fixed because--

"Official Bulletin by the Order of Doctor Charmchi, Senior Staff, Researcher, Goldyard Facilities. Official Bulletin by--" Farron breathes a sigh of relief, rolling her head back until the strain in her neck eases a trifle. Anything from Goldyard is probably pre-recorded, and generally has to do with research projects within the Goldyard lab. That should exclude all three of them from any risk of being newsworthy. She was probably being silly, anyway.

The second processor doesn't post, either. Sighing, Farron switches it out for the third, listening with only half an ear to Goldyard's latest message.

"All assistive drones within city proper must be regraded to legal parameters by the end of the current week cycle. Processing chips enabling computative power of sixteen zettaherz or greater have been recalled for use by Goldyard Facilities. Please comply with these regulations promptly."

"What do they need you for, I wonder?" Farron says to the third processor chip before she flips the testing apparatus on again. Goldyard has their own tech and can make more, fresh and new, even if they didn't. They own plants in the manufactory district or could rent more if those aren't sufficient, and Goldyard has always ruled the mining trade in Jayfor.

To her delight, the third processor does post, shrieking out a piercing little beep to attest its functionality. It's a grimy little thing, probably not used since it was salvaged, so just to be doubly sure it will work, Farron unplugs it, brushes it down lightly with some cleaning acid from Tassie's shelf, and blows until it's dry. Once plugged in, it posts again, letting loose an eager little chirp. Behind her the broadcast is now droning on about the amount of aether consumption within the central city going up last quarter, liberally peppered with admonitions that citizenry should minimize their power usage for conservation's sake, but Farron is only moderately interested. She turns everything off, setting back the tools and parts she'd sifted through, and wraps her chosen processor in a small cloth, pocketing it.

She almost forgets to switch off the broadcast, she's so used to the sound of it blaring incessantly back on the farm. With a sigh, Farron slinks back to the kitchen, carefully avoiding touching anything but the button to cease the broadcast projection. Tassie keeps her kitchen in perfect order, even recently used dishes scrubbed clean and put back in place. Even if the day had not already been unnecessarily stressful, Farron wouldn't want to disturb that balance.

Something shifts, and buzzes as she's backing up, and Farron could almost swear that someone is sidling past her. It feels as though she was just bumped in the shoulder, but--

"Hello?" She murmurs softly, hoping that it's all in her imagination. If, say, the Ultramar Ibera have developed practical-use reflective suits and are able to hide in plain sight, then she, Tassie and even Manayan might all be hauled away for their efforts to defy that new Goldyard bulletin about the processing units. One of them could very well have taken up position while Tassie was unable to move and lain in wait, hiding patiently to see whether she abided by the new laws or not.

"Who's there?"

But there's nothing, no sound or shift or flicker of the light, and after a few more moments, Farron is certain again that she's alone. Reluctantly, she turns away from the kitchen once more, and returns to Tassie and Manayan in the bedroom to begin making repairs. 


End file.
